


say it after me

by soulofme



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, musician tharn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: "You can't write about shit you've never felt."
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	say it after me

It’s ignorable, at first, Tharn and all of the stupid fucking feelings Type has for him.

Like a tiny itch, something irritating but certainly not life threatening. If he tries, he can shove the thought of them to the dark recesses of his mind, places even he forgets about. He does that a lot. Makes life easier, a smaller pill to swallow. It doesn’t _fix_ things, but Type doesn’t always need a goddamn fix.

He likes things like this. Things are _good_ like this.

But all good things eventually meet a tragic end. He learned that as a kid, and only now is he really able to apply it. The sun always sets, and the moon always rises. Pretty things don’t last long, not as long as they should. The dark rules the world. It sounds dramatic as fuck when he says it like that, but sometimes Type can’t control the shit his brain comes up with. When he's pissed at himself, he says the first thing that comes to mind. In this case, the thought that he's in too fucking deep reigns above the rest.

He can’t remember the lead-up to the conversation, the words that left his mouth without his permission. He doesn’t remember the beer, bitter on his tongue, settling down all sour in his gut.

He remembers Tharn, thin-lipped, red-faced, looking like he’d rather be doing anything else at the moment. And Type remembers laughing, laughing at Tharn, at himself, at any and everything even though nothing’s funny. He feels like he's going insane, and Tharn maybe does too, but laughing makes things easier. Just like ignoring them.

“You can’t write about shit you’ve never felt.”

The words are tumbling, tumbling out and spilling across the table before them. Like a glass upturned, they soak everything in their path. His hands, his pants, Tharn’s frozen fingers. They drip off the sides of the table, droplets hitting the unforgiving ground below, soon to be evaporated from the heat of the room around them.

Tharn humors him, as he always does. There’s a tilt of his head, a silent question in the way he raises his eyebrows in Type’s direction. He probably doesn't even know where Type's going with this, but he's willing to figure it out. That's something about Tharn that Type really, _really_ doesn't get.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to write a love song,” he begins, sounding so sure of himself. “You’re stuck because you’ve never felt it.”

Type doesn’t know jack-shit about writing music. Hell, he doesn’t know jack-shit about _music_. He waits for Tharn to tell him so, but Tharn’s not a bastard. Not usually. He looks confused, but somehow willing to hear Type out. Sometimes, he’s really accommodating. It can get infuriating, but for now Type likes knowing that he’s listening. Even if what he’s saying doesn’t make sense.

“Really?” Tharn says, voice level, betraying nothing. But there’s something in his eyes.

Type rolls his eyes. “Think about it.”

“I am.”

“So?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Tharn responds carefully, hesitant, like he doesn’t know what Type will say to that.

“You gonna do something about it?”

Tharn’s brow crinkles. “Are you telling me to spontaneously fall in love?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“How?”

“That’s for _you_ to figure out, Kirigun.”

Tharn purses his lips, deep in thought. Type leans back, stretching himself out across the floor. The cool wood against his overheated skin feels like a balm of sorts. He closes his eyes and counts his breaths, the tiny puffs of air that somehow sound so loud in the wake of Tharn’s silence.

“So, I should pretend.”

“I heard it helps,” Type offers, eyes still shut against the bright lights of Tharn’s shoebox studio apartment.

“You’re trying to help?”

“What the fuck did you think I was doing?”

Tharn mumbles something, too quiet for Type to discern. If he was in a worse mood, maybe he would’ve threatened him to say it again. But he feels _good_ now, the kind of good that has him floating on clouds and zooming across the sky. 

He hears the way Tharn gets up and begins shuffling back and forth, pacing the length of the living room. It helps him think. Sometimes, Type checks in on him. Just to make sure the poor bastard hasn’t killed himself from neglect. And Tharn will be walking around the apartment, face set like someone’s pissed him off. Sometimes he puts music on, but mostly it’s just silence. Tharn and the four walls staring back at him, trying to have a conversation without any words.

“I thought you were going to give me solutions,” Tharn says, breaking into his blissful little thought bubble.

“I am, fucker.”

Tharn exhales hard, sounding so discouraged without even speaking. Type feels the smallest inkling of sympathy for him. It’s hard shit, being in a band. Or at least it seems like it. People in your business, having to come up with new stuff just to stay relevant. Creative differences are bitch, apparently, and it’s why the last singer had high-tailed it out of there. There’s another guy now, one of Tharn’s old friends, and he’s damn good.

But no one holds a candle to Tharn. It doesn’t matter that drumming and singing are two very different things, each wonderful and great in their own way. The way Tharn immerses himself in the music, the way he loses himself, isn’t like anything in this world. Type can’t even put a word to it, but he always remembers how it makes him feel.

Breathless, like he’s somehow at the top of the world without enough oxygen. Lightheaded. Overwhelmed, like he’s watching something he’s not supposed to, trampling all over Tharn’s best-kept secrets. After all, that’s the way Tharn plays. Without any borders, without any deceit, like he’s just trying to tell his story, and have it heard by every goddamn person in the universe.

“So.”

“What?” Type opens his eyes, only because the threat of falling asleep seems real. Tharn's still now, sat back down and hunched at the foot of his bed, empty cans of beer around him, cup drained of every bit of cheap alcohol. He doesn’t act buzzed, though, and Type wonders if he’s feeling anything at all.

“What if I pretended?”

“Pretended to _what_?”

“To be in love. Would that work?”

He’s got these big, earnest eyes, looking like a little puppy as he waits for Type’s answer. Even though he’s close to six foot, Tharn somehow looks small, like he’s waiting for a verbal blow to knock him down.

“I don’t know. Try it.”

He thinks that’s the sad end of it, but really, it’s just the beginning. Tharn doesn’t bring up that night, not even when they’re sober, but something about him has changed. Type doesn’t actively keep track of it, but he’s not dense enough to not notice when something is different.

For one, Tharn seems far too interested in what Type’s doing. He spends whatever free time he has with him, even though his bandmates always complain that he only shows up for practice. It’s fucking weird, but Tharn’s got this thing where sometimes he gets super clingy. He’s been like that ever since Type met him, so he figures this is just another one of those things and brushes it off. But also, Tharn touches him more than before. A casual hand on his shoulder, his knee, on whatever bit of Type he can get that won't seem wildly inappropriate.

It goes on like that, for a good while.

But Type is impatient, unforgiving when he feels like his time is being wasted. He finally says something, something cutting and cruel, something to make Tharn flinch. And Tharn goes:

“You told me to pretend to be in love.”

Type pinches the bridge of his nose. “So?”

“I did,” Tharn says, slow like Type’s too dumb to understand him. “But I don't think I'm pretending anymore.”

Type groans.

“Don’t fuck with me, Kirigun.”

Tharn scowls. “Why do you always assume the worst of me?”

“Life’s thrown a lot of shit at me.”

He doesn’t want to get into it. Now’s not the time to dig up all his trauma and lay it all out in front of them. He figures Tharn can deduce what he’s talking about anyway, without any explicit mention by Type.

“I’m not like that.”

And really, Tharn isn’t. He’s different from everyone else. Something that Type’s never seen in a person before, which is confusing more than anything. There aren’t words for Tharn, and Type doesn’t think there ever will be.

“Who is it?” Type asks, just to keep Tharn from looking at him like _that_. All soft and sweet, something cloying that Type might just choke on.

“You already know,” Tharn says, and deep-down Type knows he’s right.

But it’s easier to pretend. Type can act brave even when beneath it all, he’s a fucking coward. He can act like this doesn’t mean shit to him, even when his hands are shaking and his head is spinning.

He doesn’t ask how long or why, mostly because he’s not sure if he wants to know. He’s quiet, quiet when Tharn sits next to him, quiet when Tharn looks at him, waiting for him to speak, to acknowledge his feelings.

“Shit.”

Tharn laughs at the answer, unbothered by the blunt way Type speaks. His eyes curve upwards, his mouth stretching in an easy, open grin. Right now, Tharn looks the way he does when he’s up on stage. He’s got nothing to hide.

“It helped, by the way,” Tharn says, shrugging when Type frowns at him. “I finished the song.”

“Oh.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

“Don’t make it sound like you’re about to break-up with me or some shit, _fuck_.”

Tharn’s laugh is self-conscious then. “We’re not even together.”

They’re not. But sometimes, Type pretends they are. That's another thing he likes to ignore, likes to pretend doesn't exist. He knows why Tharn makes him feel the way he does, but it's easier to just... _not_. To not think, to not feel, to not be anything other than Tharn's best friend.

“I _know_. I’m just saying that’s what it sounded like.”

“I hate that word.”

“What?”

“Break-up,” Tharn spits it out like a curse.

“Why?” Type mutters, rolling his eyes. “People break up when it stops working out. Nothing wrong with that.”

“That’s what gets me,” Tharn says quietly. “I don’t like endings. Especially not sad ones.”

Type can’t stop himself from snorting.

“So, you like happy endings?”

“I like you,” Tharn says, without a fucking warning.

Type stares up at the ceiling. It feels safer than Tharn’s face.

“You’re fucked for that.”

“Probably,” Tharn agrees. “But I’m making music now. A lot of it.”

“Good for you,” Type says, the words feeling like they’re going to get stuck in his throat.

He chances a look at Tharn’s face, telling himself whatever he sees there won’t be as disastrous as he thinks it will. Only, it’s a hell of a lot worse than anything Type could have imagined. He sees the Tharn that plays music, who bares his feelings for a crowd, who’s open and honest and too goddamn kind.

But there’s another side to Tharn, something passionate and stubborn, something that tells Type he’s going to hold on and never let go. The thought that Tharn wants him, in all kinds of ways, makes his stomach flip.

“This isn’t gonna change anything,” Type finally grits out, trying desperately to believe the words.

“I know,” Tharn says, looking damn well like he believes Type’s _wrong_.

But Type lets it go, ignores it like he does anything else in life that feels too hard to deal with. Eventually, he reasons, Tharn will get tired. He’ll find someone shiny and new, a toy to play with that isn’t broken like Type. And things will become easy again, digestible and simple to deal with. Type just has to wait for it.

Even if he knows Tharn won’t give up that easily.


End file.
